The Meriwell Legacy

#1 NYT-bestselling author Stephanie Laurens returns with her favorite sleuths to unravel a tangled web of family secrets and expose a murderer.

When Lord Meriwell collapses and dies at his dining table, Barnaby and Penelope Adair are summoned, along with Inspector Basil Stokes, to discover who, how, and most importantly why someone very close to his lordship saw fit to poison him.

When Lord Meriwell dies at his dining table, Nurse Veronica Haskell suspects foul play and notifies his lordship’s doctor, eminent Harley Street specialist Dr. David Sanderson. In turn, compelled by a need to protect Veronica who is at Meriwell Hall as David’s behest, David calls on his friends Barnaby and Penelope Adair for assistance.

However, as the fateful dinner was the first of a house party being attended by the local MP and his family, the Metropolitan Police commissioners also consider the Adairs’ presence desirable, and consequently, Barnaby and Penelope accompany Stokes to Meriwell Hall.

There, they discover a gathering of the Meriwell family intended to impress the visiting Busseltons so that George Busselton, local MP, will agree to a marriage between his daughter and Lord Meriwell’s eldest nephew, Stephen. But instead of any pleasant sojourn, the company find themselves confined to the hall and grounds while Stokes, Barnaby, and Penelope set about interviewing everyone and establishing facts, alibis, and the movements of those in the house.

To our investigators’ frustration, while determining the means proves straightforward, and opportunity reduces their suspect list, motive remains elusive, and their list of suspects stays stubbornly long.

Then the killer strikes again, but even then, the investigators are left with the same suspects and too many potential reasons for the second death.

What did the killer hope to gain?

More importantly, will he kill again?

At last, the investigators stumble on a promising clue, yet following it requires sending to London for information, and their frustration builds. As the clock ticks and they doggedly forge on, they uncover more and more facts, yet none allows them to identify which of their prime suspects is the murderer.

Will they get the breakthrough they need, one sufficient to exonerate the innocent?

When the answer arrives, they discover that the Meriwell family legacies are more far-reaching than anyone realized, and that the crimes involved and the motivation for the murders is far more heinous than anyone imagined.

A historical novel of 78,000 words interweaving mystery and murder with a touch of romance.

“A mystery's afoot when Lord Meriwell collapses at dinner, poisoned. Which one of his family members or esteemed dinner guests has means and motive to want the wealthy man dead? Investigator wife-and-husband team Penelope and Barnaby Adair are on the case, assisting Scotland Yard in catching the killer. Fans of historical fiction and murder mystery aficionados will enjoy this well-plotted and suspenseful story.” Brittany M., Proofreader, Red Adept Editing

“An MP and his family are enjoying a house party at Meriwell Hall when Lord Meriwell dies by poisoning at dinner one night, and many of those who gathered around the table that evening stand to gain from their host's demise. When some talented aristocratic sleuths are summoned to help solve the murder, the unmasking of the culprit is simply a matter of time. More mystery than romance, this new tale from Stephanie Laurens features a barrelful of red herrings and is a delight to read.” Angela M., Copy Editor, Red Adept Editing
 

“Penelope and Barnaby Adair have solved several mysteries for the social elite of Regency London. So when Lord Meriwell dies under suspicious circumstances at his country estate, it's natural for Inspector Basil Stokes to enlist their help in clarifying matters. Did Meriwell succumb to old age, or was he felled by a cash-strapped descendent desperate for an inheritance? In genteel but relentless fashion, the investigators untangle a web of family intrigue—and a few romantic matches.” Kim H., Proofreader, Red Adept Editing

May 4, 1840

Meriwell Hall, Surrey

“Damn!” Veronica Haskell muttered as she halted—was forced to halt—in the shadows of the gallery around the main staircase of Meriwell Hall.

From the front hall below, from just inside the front door and therefore out of her sight, came “Busselton! Good man! Welcome to Meriwell Hall.”

The words were uttered by Veronica’s employer, Lord Meriwell, in what, to her, sounded like teeth-gritted geniality, while the subsequent noises informed her that the guests expected for a weeklong stay had arrived.

“Thank you, my lord. Thank you” was offered in response, presumably by Mr. George Busselton, Member of Parliament for the local area. “It’s a great pleasure to be here. Allow me to introduce my wife.”

Veronica listened as greetings were exchanged.

If she continued around the gallery to her younger charge’s room, she would be seen by the guests, and she wasn’t at all sure that his lordship wished to advertise the presence of a nurse in his household, and in her neat uniform, she was readily identifiable as one of that species. Consequently, she loitered, waiting while the MP’s children, Persimone and Peregrine, were introduced. Veronica was struck by an impulse to inch forward until she could peek into the hall, but reluctantly reined in her curiosity.

The purpose of the Busseltons’ visit was to advance the cause of a potential liaison between Persimone Busselton, a young lady of some twenty-three summers, and Mr. Stephen Meriwell, his lordship’s oldest nephew. Stephen was patently keen to impress the Busseltons with his connection to the Meriwell title and estate, and courtesy of the staff grapevine as well as her own observations, Veronica had learned that his lordship regarded the prospective alliance with great favor and was eager to support Stephen’s suit.

Stephen’s voice drifted up from below. Apparently, he’d escorted the Busseltons to the Hall.

Surely the company would go into the drawing room now? Veronica knew that Lady Meriwell and Lord Iffey, a close friend of the Meriwells, were waiting in the reception room to meet the much-anticipated guests.

Veronica shifted impatiently. She was on her way to check on Miss Sophie Meriwell, his lordship’s only grandchild, primarily to assess just how Sophie thought to react to the Busseltons and their visit. Sophie was given to indulging in histrionics, to acting in overly dramatic ways in order—or so Veronica firmly believed—to draw, focus, and hold the attention of everyone within earshot.

Sophie lived to be the center of attention. Always.

Although ostensibly, Veronica had been hired by his lordship to oversee his and his wife’s health, her true purpose over the nine weeks since she’d joined the household had been to observe and assess Sophie’s predisposition to dramatics to determine whether the young lady, now eighteen years old, was a true hysteric.

That diagnosis came with significant negative connotations and adverse impacts, especially for a young lady yet to make her come-out, and Lord Meriwell had been sufficiently concerned by the possibility to veto Sophie having a London Season this year. Apparently, the notion that she would behave hysterically while under the ton’s censorious gaze and, thus, reflect badly on the Meriwell family wasn’t a risk he’d been willing to court.

At twenty-five years old, Veronica had completed four years of training and had more than six years’ experience on which to call, all of it spent nursing ladies, young and old. She’d been temporarily between engagements when Dr. David Sanderson, the physician of her most recent patient, old Lady Ardlington, sadly now deceased, had asked Veronica to undertake this short-term assignment.

After dealing with Sophie for nine weeks, Veronica was ready to make her report and move on. Despite their advanced ages, the elder Meriwells were not in need of her services, and Sophie would benefit more from a strong-willed companion, one who would act as a commonsense anchor. In reality, all Sophie needed to live an entirely normal life was to have someone make her think through the consequences of her actions before she embarked on her latest dramatic flight.

At last, Veronica heard shuffling and footsteps indicating the guests were filing into the drawing room.

She drew breath and was poised to continue on her way when she heard his lordship furiously whisper, “I want to see you later. After dinner, in the library.”

Suppressed rage vibrated beneath his lordship’s rigidly civil phrasing.

With the same contained anger and still speaking in a forceful whisper, he added, “It’s about the business in Seven Dials.”

Seven Dials? Veronica was amazed that any Meriwell would have any interest whatsoever in that seediest and most dangerous of London slums.

Stephen’s tone as he answered, “Yes, of course,” suggested he was as surprised as she, and both men walked into the drawing room.

“Finally!” Veronica murmured and set off for Sophie’s room. As she passed the head of the stairs, she looked down and saw the butler, Jensen, and the two footmen, Thomas and Jeremy, busily sorting luggage.

As she continued along the corridor to Sophie’s room, Veronica mulled over what she’d overheard. Judging from the staff’s views of the members of the Meriwell family, it seemed likely that any link with a presumably unsavory business in Seven Dials would be via one of Stephen’s younger brothers, Arthur or Peter Meriwell. Both younger nephews frequently tried his lordship’s temper, the terms “wastrel” and “profligate” being habitually applied. In contrast, Stephen was regarded as the golden-haired future of the family, and from all Veronica had seen of the man, he was a steady, sensible, solidly respectable gentleman, who managed his affairs sufficiently well never to have applied to his lordship for financial relief, something Arthur and Peter did with distressing regularity. Over just the past nine weeks, she’d seen Arthur and Peter on several occasions when they’d arrived to try to pry more funds from Lord Meriwell.

Concluding that the cause of his lordship’s ire would lie with either Arthur or Peter—both of whom were expected to arrive within the next hours and remain for several days, putting on a show of familial solidarity for the Busseltons in support of Stephen’s cause—Veronica foresaw family fireworks in the immediate future.

* * *

That evening, Veronica sat at the long table in the servants’ hall and, over the remains of their dinner, chatted with various members of the staff. Only Jensen, Thomas, Jeremy, Cook, and Maddie, her assistant, were absent. They’d eaten earlier, before Jensen and the footmen left to set the dining table and Cook and Maddie returned to the kitchen to ready the dishes for the family and guests above stairs.

Veronica turned to Sally, Sophie’s maid, who was sitting on Veronica’s right. “How did Sophie seem when she left for the drawing room? I hope she went down in good time.”

“Oh yes, miss.” Sally bobbed her head. “She went down right after you’d gone.” Sally grinned. “That was a clever notion of yours, telling her about the young gentleman who’s come. Made her forget her idea of ignoring the visitors, that did, and your suggestion she use the opportunity to show his lordship she can be trusted in company gave her a new direction. She went off in a much more agreeable frame of mind. If anything, she was curious to meet the young lady and her brother.”

“Good.” Across the table, Veronica met the eyes of the housekeeper, Mrs. Hutchinson. “With luck, Sophie might learn something from observing Miss Busselton.”

“We can only hope!” Mrs. Hutchinson declared.

From deep within the house, a sound like a scream—abruptly cut off—reached them.

The staff looked at each other, mystified, wondering. Had Sophie decided she needed more attention?

A minute of pregnant silence ensued, then footsteps pounded down the corridor toward them.

The swinging door to the servants’ hall flew open, crashing against the wall.

Everyone jerked and shifted to stare—at Thomas. Wide-eyed and white-faced, the young footman stood gasping in the doorway.

“It’s his lordship,” Thomas blurted. “He’s collapsed at table.” Thomas’s gaze raked the gathering and locked on Veronica. “They’ve asked for you to come and see to him, miss.”

She was already rising. “Yes, of course.”

Thomas spun about and led the way.

Veronica rushed after him, and Gorton, his lordship’s valet, followed at her heels.

They ran into the hall and around to the open dining room door. Veronica stepped into the room and paused.

Chaos reigned. Voices—mostly male—were exclaiming and arguing.

The room was long and narrow and, with four heavy sideboards hemming in the large dining table, was perpetually cramped. With one comprehensive glance, Veronica took in the four Busseltons, who had risen and gathered in a tight knot around the far end of the table, behind the small carver in which Clementina, Lady Meriwell, sat, her expression one of shock and stunned dismay. She seemed frozen in place, while Wallace, Lord Iffey, equally stunned, remained seated on her left.

Halfway down the table on the opposite side, Sophie Meriwell looked shocked speechless. She remained in her chair and stared uncomprehendingly at the melee surrounding her grandfather.

As for his lordship…

At the head of the table, nearer Veronica, a bevy of men were clustered around the large carver, presumably attempting to assist Lord Meriwell. Stephen, Arthur, and Peter were there, along with Jensen, while Thomas and Jeremy hovered, ready to help if required.

Her lips tightening, Veronica stepped forward, only to have Gorton dart around her and join the crowd around his lordship.

Gorton pushed Jensen aside to reach his master, and Jensen glanced up and saw Veronica. “Miss Haskell!” His expression one of incipient panic, the butler beckoned. “Please.” To the men, he said, “We should make way for Nurse Haskell. Perhaps…”

Veronica followed Gorton and attempted to get close enough to see her patient.

Lord Meriwell lay slumped forward, his face pinning the empty soup plate to the plates beneath it. The fingers of his right hand were curled about the base of his wine glass, and his left arm, partially extended, lay on the white tablecloth.

His silver hair—despite his eighty years, still thick—and a small slice of his profile were all Veronica could see. She couldn’t even judge his complexion from that.

Before she could demand to be given space to examine her patient, Arthur, his features harsh and his expression hard, cast her a sharp glance. “Stand back,” he ordered. “Let us get him upstairs.”

With that, Jeremy and Thomas drew back the large carver, and Stephen—on his lordship’s other side—and Arthur hauled his lordship’s limp arms over their shoulders and hoisted him up.

Veronica tried to peer at his lordship’s face, but was blocked by Arthur as he and Stephen turned their uncle—suspended between them, slumped and apparently unresponsive—toward the doorway. When she pushed nearer, trying to see, Stephen snapped at her, “Wait until we get him to his bed. You can examine him there.”

She gritted her teeth. She didn’t need her patient stretched out to diagnose a faint or a seizure, but she had no authority to overrule them. Swallowing her professional ire, she followed as, assisted by Jensen, Gorton, and Jeremy, Stephen and Arthur maneuvered his lordship into the corridor.

Stephen glanced at Peter, who had been hovering ineffectually at Stephen’s side. “See to the guests and Aunt Clementina, Iffey, and Sophie. Take them to the drawing room—I seriously doubt anyone feels hungry at the moment. Tell them we’ll come down and report as soon as we know more.”

Jensen sent Thomas to help Peter escort the guests to the drawing room, and Stephen and Arthur lurched forward, half dragging his lordship toward the stairs. Jensen and Jeremy rushed to get ahead of them, while Gorton fussed behind.

Veronica was about to follow when a thought impinged, and she briskly stepped back into the dining room.

Supported by Thomas, Peter was diffidently suggesting to the group clustered about the far end of the table that they repair to the drawing room to await further word.

Meanwhile, Sophie Meriwell remained seated at the table, her expression curiously blank.

Veronica recognized the look; Sophie was considering indulging in a massive display of hysterics.

Small wonder, but…

Catching the younger woman’s eyes, Veronica brutally advised, “Not now.”

She held Sophie’s gaze until she saw acceptance bloom, then turned and grimly hurried after the men.

They hadn’t even allowed her to check his lordship’s pulse!

* * *

Veronica was forced to stand back and watch as, between them, Stephen, Arthur, Jensen, and Gorton laid Lord Meriwell on his bed.

By then, she’d seen enough to entertain the gravest fears. His lordship did not appear to be breathing, and there was a worrying bluish tint to his lips.

When the men finally straightened and stepped back, Stephen brusquely waved her to the bed.

Quickly, she went to the bed’s side, picked up his lordship’s wrist, and searched for a pulse.

As she’d feared, she could find no hint of one.

She released his wrist, leaned over him, and inserted her fingers behind his cravat, feeling for a pulse in the great vessels of the neck.

Nothing.

She breathed in, and the faint scent of bitter almonds teased her senses.

Frowning, she straightened and looked down at his lordship. “He’s passed.” That much was certain.

Arthur softly swore and ran a hand down his face. He looked haggard.

Somewhat shakily, Stephen said, “No doubt his heart gave out.”

Arthur sighed. “He was old—his heart had to be weak.”

Increasingly puzzled, Veronica said nothing. Yes, his lordship’s heart had ultimately failed, but he’d been in the care of one of the country’s foremost physicians, and this was the first she’d heard of any weakness of the heart.

That didn’t mean the cause of his death hadn’t been his heart giving out, yet what she was seeing didn’t entirely fit.

Granite-faced, Stephen stirred. “I’ll go down and break the news.”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll come, too.” After a last lingering glance at the bed, he turned away. “Nothing more we can do here.”

Veronica waited until the door shut behind them, then looked at Jensen and Jeremy. “What happened?”

Jensen drew in a huge breath, then, his gaze resting on his dead master, said, “I’d just filled his glass with wine. He took a gulp of it, swallowed…and then he had some sort of seizure.”

“He couldn’t seem to catch his breath,” Jeremy said. “He gasped like a landed fish, then he tried to raise his hand—the left one—as if he wanted to point down the table.”

Jensen nodded. “But he collapsed before he managed it.”

Veronica didn’t like the sound of any of that. “He didn’t clutch at his chest?”

“No,” Jensen replied, and Jeremy shook his head.

She beckoned the pair, and Gorton, too, to come to the bed. “I need you to sniff just above his lips. Don’t think about it—just do it. Then once you’ve all sniffed, you can tell me what you smelled.”

They cast her wary looks, but her standing in the household was high enough that they did as she’d asked.

Each sniffed, then frowned as they straightened.

Once all three had had a moment to think, she asked, “All right. What did you smell?”

“Almonds,” Gorton promptly replied. “The bitter kind.”

Jensen was nodding. “Definitely like almonds.”

“Like in Cook’s marzipan icing on his lordship’s birthday cake,” Jeremy supplied.

Increasingly grim, Veronica said, “That’s what I smelled, too.” She pointed at his lordship’s lips. “See the bluishness there? That indicates difficulty breathing. So it wasn’t his heart but his lungs—they seized.”

Gorton, who’d worked for Lord Meriwell for more than forty years and had been deeply attached to his late master, was watching her closely. “And the smell of bitter almonds?”

Veronica swallowed a sigh and stated, “That means he was poisoned.”

The discombobulating shock the realization provoked had already coursed through her. Now, she watched it wash over the three men’s features. But as she’d expected, as she waited, their expressions hardened.

Before they could speak, she took charge. “The first thing we need to do is for you two”—she tipped her head at Jensen and Jeremy—“to tell me and Gorton everything you can remember about what happened leading up to and immediately following his lordship’s collapse.”

Jensen and Jeremy exchanged a glance, then Jensen drew in a bolstering breath and commenced, “Everything was going along in the usual way. Once the table was set and all was ready for the first course, I sent Jeremy to fetch the soup tureen, and I went to summon the company from the drawing room. They followed me back to the dining room and filed in and found their seats. Jeremy returned with the tureen and set it on the sideboard nearest the door. I picked up the wine decanter and unstoppered it.” Jensen paused, frowning slightly as he revisited the moment in his memory. “His lordship was glaring down the table at Miss Sophie or Mr. Stephen—I couldn’t tell which one. I stepped up to the table and, as usual, filled his lordship’s glass first. He was still glaring down the table, and as I straightened, he reached out, picked up the glass, and took a large mouthful. He swallowed—still glaring—and I stepped around Mr. Busselton, who was seated on his lordship’s right, to fill his glass. That was when his lordship choked and gasped. He tried to breathe—to haul in a breath—but couldn’t seem to manage it.”

Jensen glanced at Jeremy, and the footman nodded.

“I was standing on the other side of Jensen.” Jeremy swallowed. “It was just as he says. His lordship couldn’t get any air, and then he tried to lift his left hand and point, it seemed in the same direction he’d been glaring. Then he slumped, and his hand fell to the table, and his head hit the plate.” Jeremy swallowed again. “That was it.”

Veronica nodded. “So his lordship took one mouthful of wine, swallowed, and almost immediately, he couldn’t breathe and died.” She glanced at Gorton. “At the table, you got closer than I did. As far as you could tell, was his lordship already dead?”

Gorton held her gaze for several seconds, then sighed. “From the moment I first saw him slumped at the table, I detected no sign of life.”

Veronica looked at Jensen. “We’ll need to notify the authorities, but first, one thing I know we’ll be asked about is the seating at the table. Most people had moved by the time I got there, so who was sitting where?”

Jensen drew breath and recited, “Starting from her ladyship’s right, that was Miss Busselton. Then came Mr. Stephen, and Miss Sophie, and beside her was Master Busselton. On his lordship’s left was Mrs. Busselton. Then down the other side, on his lordship’s right was Mr. Busselton, followed by Mr. Arthur and Mr. Peter, then Lord Iffey beside her ladyship.”

“Very well.” Veronica looked from Jensen to Jeremy. “You mentioned his lordship was glaring down the table.”

Jeremy nodded. “At either Mr. Stephen or Miss Sophie. Like Jensen, because of the angle, I couldn’t tell which.”

Veronica grimaced. “Given the usual issues, I suppose it was at Sophie.”

“Most likely,” Gorton agreed. “Mr. Stephen rarely if ever gave his lordship cause for worry.”

Jensen had been staring at the body on the bed. Now, he shook himself and looked at Veronica. “So who do we send for? The local doctor? His lordship was never happy with him.”

“No, indeed. We have to send for his lordship’s current physician—to Dr. Sanderson in Harley Street. He’ll organize everything—all that needs to happen.”

“Will you write a note, miss?” Jensen asked. “Best it comes from you, don’t you think?”

Veronica nodded. “Yes, I’ll write a brief account, and we’ll need to send it by rider.” She looked at Gorton and Jeremy. “I suggest you two remain here on watch while Jensen and I go down and set matters in train.”

All agreed, and Veronica and Jensen made their way downstairs.

At the base of the stairs, Veronica paused. “One moment.” She beckoned Jensen to follow as she diverted toward the dining room. As they neared the door, she murmured, “We should secure his lordship’s glass, with the rest of the wine in it, as well as the decanter.”

“You think the poison was in the wine?” Jensen asked.

Veronica glanced at him. “Don’t you?”

He grimaced as they reached the still-open dining room door.

Pausing in the doorway, they looked at the table.

His lordship’s wine glass was gone.

Moving into the room, Veronica surveyed the rest of the table. “Do my eyes deceive me, or is everything else exactly as it was when we left?”

Jensen, following her, was also examining the scene. “All the cutlery and plates are still in place and all the other glasses.” Beside Veronica, he halted by the large carver. “The only thing missing is his lordship’s glass.”

“Along with the wine it contained.” Veronica tipped her head at the sideboard. “Best take the decanter and put it somewhere safe.”

Jensen crossed to the sideboard, picked up the decanter, and returned to Veronica’s side.

“Just a second.” She lifted the stopper and sniffed. Her features hardening, she replaced the stopper. “There’s no scent of bitter almonds.”

Jensen frowned, then glanced at the table. “So the poison was in his glass?”

“Yes.” Veronica stared at where the glass should have been. “And it vanishing confirms beyond doubt that we have a murderer in the house.”

* * *

Jensen went to put the decanter in his pantry, and Veronica tiptoed past the drawing room door, helpfully closed, and slipped into the library.

She sat at the desk, found paper, pen, and ink, and swiftly wrote an account of the critical points that David Sanderson needed to know.

After signing and sealing the missive, she rose and, taking the note, went downstairs. She found Jensen sitting, looking lost, in his pantry. He accepted the letter and summoned his lordship’s groom, who was waiting, and she and Jensen went out to the back step and saw groom and note off on their journey to the capital.

With the thud of hooves receding, Veronica remained on the step and, with the gentle night breeze wafting over her face, fervently prayed that David Sanderson was at home when her missive arrived and not out attending some aristocratic client’s confinement, a duty that might keep him away for hours if not days.

With a sigh, she turned in to the house and, with Jensen, returned to the servants’ hall, now empty and shrouded in a pall of quiet gloom. She paused and, after a moment’s thought, murmured, “I believe our best way forward is to not mention what we believe to have occurred and, instead, wait for Dr. Sanderson to confirm it officially.”

Jensen readily acquiesced. “No sense in us causing a furor.” His lips twisted. “And the arguments and outrage don’t bear thinking about.”

“Exactly.” She accepted that they weren’t in a position to make such judgments and expect to be supported by their betters. Betters who would almost certainly prefer such unsavory prospects as murder, murderers, and poison to be swept under a convenient rug.

“I’ll warn Jeremy and Gorton,” Jensen said, “so they don’t accidentally start any hares.”

Veronica thought that wise and said so, and she and Jensen returned to the front hall, Jensen intending to go up to his lordship’s room while she went to check on Sophie and her ladyship.

Veronica had to admit that her feet felt leaden, and Jensen seemed equally plodding.

They were nearing the bottom of the stairs when Stephen Meriwell came out of the drawing room and spotted them.

“Jensen. Miss Haskell.”

They halted and waited as Stephen closed the drawing room door and strode up.

He glanced briefly at them, then stated, “I believe the correct procedure is to inform the local doctor that his lordship has passed away. It’s Dr. Grimshaw in Thames Ditton, isn’t it?”

Veronica pressed her palms together and raised her chin. “Dr. Grimshaw is in Thames Ditton, but he can’t and won’t pronounce on a patient under the care of an eminent Harley Street physician. We need to send for his lordship’s physician—Dr. Sanderson.”

Grimshaw was an old-fashioned quack exceedingly set in his ways. He and David Sanderson had clashed over his lordship’s health and even more about the treatment Grimshaw had prescribed for Sophie’s supposed hysteria. More, Grimshaw was easily influenced by those of higher social standing; if Stephen and Arthur said his lordship died of a heart attack, that was what Grimshaw would obligingly put on the death certificate.

That said, it wasn’t surprising that Stephen had suggested Grimshaw be called. Having spent many of his formative years at the Hall, Stephen was acquainted with Grimshaw but not, as far as Veronica knew, with David Sanderson.

Stephen was frowning. Thinking to head off any further argument, she added, “We’ve already sent a rider to summon Dr. Sanderson.” As a nurse, she had that right. “I’m sure he’ll respond as soon as he can.”

Stephen grimaced, but reluctantly nodded. “Very well. Let’s hope he gets here soon.”

With that, he turned and walked back to the drawing room.

When the door closed behind him, Veronica exchanged a relieved look with Jensen.

“Miss Haskell?”

Veronica turned to look up the stairs, to the gallery where Sally was peering over the balustrade.

“Can you come up, miss? Miss Sophie says as she needs to see you.”

“Of course she does,” Veronica murmured.

After a last glance at the drawing room door, she started up the stairs beside Jensen.

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